


You *Shall* Go to the Ball

by 221b_hound



Series: Princess for a Day [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cinderella Elements, Kilts, M/M, Sherlock as fairy godmother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 16:59:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6996814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_hound/pseuds/221b_hound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's broken wrist may lead him to missing the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers annual dinner. But with Sherlock around to be fairy godmother, soon there'll be the Baker Street equivalent of a gown, a coach, a footman and a surprising dance at the ball. Well, and also debauching sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You *Shall* Go to the Ball

**Author's Note:**

> The second of my Princess for a Day fics. Some days, it's John's turn to be the princess.  
> (Note: this is not the same universe as The Princess Experiment.)
> 
> The next story will be a different fandom entirely...

The sky was dark with winter clouds and the impending 4pm sunset when Sherlock returned to Baker Street from a morning at the Wellcome Museum, following a lead on a cold case.

From the street, Sherlock could see the lights were out in the flat, as he expected them to be, which made him sigh. It was his own fault, of course. He’d insisted that he didn’t want to join John at the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers Annual Regimental Dinner because a) boring, b) _boring_ and c) **BORING**.

He hadn’t admitted that while excuses a to c were perfectly valid, to a point, Sherlock’s main objection was that he hadn’t the patience to tolerate an evening of side-stares and whispers from men who traditionally, he believed, found queer relationships distasteful. He and John had discussed the issue once, in their early days as a couple – an idle conversation at the time – and John had been dismissive of the idea that his old comrades would be that obnoxious to his face.

Sherlock agreed that to his face, no, the Fusiliers would probably be polite; or simply non-committal. But Sherlock always saw all the things John didn’t see, and he didn’t want to see those people looking at them like that. At _John_ like that. So he made excuses and begged off. His absence would make things nicer for John, anyway. Less awkward.

And now the flat was dark and cold, and John was on his way to Newcastle for the annual dinner this evening, without him. Sherlock assumed John hadn’t found it too difficult to pack or reach Heathrow on his own; John’s wrist was in a cast after yesterday’s unpleasantness with the flower-seller-cum-rose-smuggler.

Mrs Hudson materialised in the hall as Sherlock opened the door.

“How is he, Sherlock?”

_Tired, sore, relieved he intervened between the marble statue and my head, annoyed he didn’t get himself out of the way more quickly, thoroughly satisfied with a job well done. Not home._

“Fine.”

“Only he did seem rather grumpy.”

“A felon broke his wrist with an ugly four foot marble statue of a nymph surprised while bathing. Of course he’s grumpy.”

“At least he’s stopped thumping around the flat.”

“He has a dinner in Newcastle.”

“Has he? Oh well, that would explain it.”

Sherlock hadn’t the energy to ask what the hell that meant, and headed up the stairs.

“Tell him I’ll be up with tea later.”

Sherlock turned to ask what she didn’t understand about John being in Newcastle, but she’d gone.

It was only when he opened the door that Sherlock realised he’d made a mistake.

The flat was in darkness, certainly, but John was not in Newcastle. He was in his armchair in the gloom, nursing his wrist in a plaster cast that went from lower forearm to thumb. He sat with lowered chin, staring at the fire someone had built in the fireplace. John’s suitcase was just inside the door and the suit bag containing his outfit was hanging on the hook above it.

“Why aren’t you in Newcastle?”

John lifted the plaster-encased limb, rested it on his chest again and stared into the flames.

Sherlock walked across the room and dropped into his own chair to inspect John. John sighed and continued staring into the fire.

“It’s not the pain,” Sherlock observed, “You have a high pain threshold and the painkillers are managing the worst of it. Yesterday morning you were still very much looking forward to seeing Bill Murray and your other former comrades, so it’s not a sudden reluctance to see them. You’re not sulking about the fact I do not want to go with you; you’ve had weeks to do that. You spent considerable time choosing your formal wear, as I recall, and had your kilt and jacket dry-cleaned in preparation. I don’t… oh.”

John pursed his lips and said nothing.

Sherlock pursed his lips and said a whole lot.

“After all this effort, the jacket won’t fit over the cast. You don’t have time or the resources to find a replacement and you certainly won’t damage the best jacket you have to accommodate the cast. A kilt also takes some management to ensure the pleats sit correctly. Added to this, your current injuries remind you that the last time you saw any of your unit, you were still recovering from the injury that led to your discharge. This realisation has led to several others, including the fact that you’re no longer a soldier, you’re no longer a full time doctor, and although you’re in a successful and may I say very happy long term relationship, you won’t have your partner with you to demonstrate that you have resumed a fulfilling post-injury, post-army life.”

John blinked.

“How am I doing?” Sherlock asked.

“I don’t need to parade you around like a trophy to demonstrate how great my life is, you know. And you missed ‘couldn’t work out how to carry both suitcase and suit bag down to the cab let alone manage the tube to the airport, before realising the kilt and jacket would be problematic’.” His face twisted in a wry grimace. “But otherwise, I suppose it’s sound.”

Sherlock went to his knees in front of John and wriggled forward to fit between John’s knees, spread to allow him near. John looked down at Sherlock looking up at him.

“Do you want to go to this dinner, John?”

“Yes. No. Not like this.” He sighed. “But yes. I want to see them. It’s… not just about me showing I’m doing well. It’s showing up for them, too. But the bags were unwieldy with one arm – which yes, made me cranky because of my discharge history – then I realised the outfit was a problem, and then _everything_ was a problem so I sat down and didn’t get up.”

“When’s your flight?”

“Thirty-five minutes. I’ll never get there. It takes thirty to drive to the airport on a good day.”

Sherlock inched further forward on his knees, insinuated his arms around John’s waist and looked intently into John’s eyes.

“Do you want to go? Yes or no.”

“It’s too late….”

“Yes. Or. No.”

“Yes.”

“Then you’re going.”

Sherlock leapt to his feet and dashed across the room. Lights on, suit bag whipped off the hook, zip down, and he pulled the dress shirt and jacket from the hanger.

“Up, John, up! Up!”

John, bemused but always ready to respond to Sherlock’s most urgent commands (‘After him!’; ‘Duck!’; ‘Harder, oh god, please, fuck yes, _harder_!’) rose.

Sherlock held the dress shirt up against John’s torso and then examined the sleeves. He snatched up scissors from the table and carefully snipped the stitching along the arm.

“Mrs Hudson!” he hollered down the stairs, “Hemming tape! John’s shirt!”

 “The shirt will go over the cast this way,” he explained, “and this,” he took up a white-and-gold hair elastic from a packet he’d been using recently to bundle paintbrushes together for an unrelated case, “Will loop over the cufflink and through the buttonhole on the wrist to hold it closed over the thicker girth. Murray will certainly assist with that.”

“The jacket…?”

“Wear it over your shoulders; don’t worry about putting your arms in the sleeves. Formal enough without being restrictive. Ah, Mrs Hudson. Excellent.” He shoved the shirt at her. “I’ve cut the sleeve to make room for John’s cast. Tidy up the seam, would you?”

“I’m just…”

“Now, if you would Hudders, John has a plane to catch.”

Mrs Hudson tutted, but took the shirt and disappeared downstairs.

“Sherlock, I’m never going to reach Heathrow in time.”

But Sherlock was already texting. His phone rang and he answered it at once. “Well, can you? Of course there is. Your favours are never _little_. Really? All right, deal. Excellent, we’re nearly done.”

No sooner had he hung up than the phone pinged with a message. He texted swiftly back, then the phone rang again.

“Ah, Greg! Will you do it? It _is_ an emergency. A whole week?” Sherlock glanced at John and sighed. “Four days? Five?” He looked at John – who was looking bemused but hopeful – and sighed again. “A week. Yes. I said a week, didn’t I? How soon? No, sooner than that. Good. We’ll meet you in five.”

Sherlock whirled to the stairs.

“ _Mrs Hudson! Time is of the essence_!”

But she was already dashing up to the landing. “Don’t snatch!” she warned him, “I’ve just pressed it!”

Sherlock snatched up the shirt, but carefully, and inspected the result. Very neatly done. He put the shirt back on the hanger, and John’s coat over the shirt, and both into the suit bag with the kilt.

“Sherlock, how am I going to manage the kilt when I get there?”

“Bill Murray will meet you at the airport and assist.” He held up his phone which displayed the text message: _You bet I’ll help. I’ve got Fusiliers here who are coming just to see John’s knees again!_

“Cheeky bastard,” said John, but he was smiling.

“Ticket?”

“In the side of the case.”

Sherlock checked it, checked the suit bag, threw in some spare hair elastics, checked the shoes in their separate bag at the bottom, zipped up the whole and took hold of both suitcase and suit bag.

“Wallet?” he demanded of John, “Keys?”

“Everything packed and ready to go,” said John, “I can’t wait to see how you’re actually going to get me to Heathrow on time.”

On cue, a blue flash of light came from the street below, accompanied by a brief whine of the siren.

“Here’s your ride,” said Sherlock.

He followed John downstairs, carrying John’s bags. He shoved them into the back of the squad car that waited at their door. Greg Lestrade waited with folded arms to help John into the car. Sergeant Donovan sat in the back seat shaking her head.

Greg was grinning like it was all a grand game. “I thought you could start your week of being well mannered with my crew right now,” he said to Sherlock.

Sherlock grimaced but he bent to nod to Sally. “Good afternoon, Sergeant Donovan. It’s a pleasure to see you looking so competent.”

She gave him the finger but made sure John’s suit bag was placed carefully on the seat beside her.

Sherlock leaned into the car to fasten John’s seatbelt and kiss him on the cheek. “Greg will get you to Heathrow in twenty minutes, with the siren on. Fifteen if he pushes it. Mycroft has pulled strings to delay take-off until you arrive. Donovan will help get you and your bags onto the plane. Murray will assist you at the other end…”

“Sherlock…”

“Enjoy the dinner. Don’t worry about a thing.”

“Sherlock!”

“No time to waste. Go!”

Sherlock slammed the door shut, stood back and watched Greg Lestrade fire up the flashing light and siren once more and pull out into the street.

He watched the car recede, and then realised that there was one thing still to do.

*

The night had gone spectacularly well. Bill had been at the airport as promised, and had provided efficient help in getting the kilt to sit correctly, the socks to be military-straight and even in doing up the shoelaces. Bill gave a running commentary on the knees and calves being exactly what the old unit would be hoping for – springing from that _one_ time John had tried to scrub an oil stain from his fatigues when an ambush hit the camp and he spent eighty minutes dashing about in boxer shorts and army boots until air support gave him a breather long enough to get his trousers back on. John got his own back by constantly ruffling Bill’s hair to a fluffy mess, because Bill was very precious about his beautiful auburn hair that brought, he said, all the girls to his yard.

But Bill, bless the beautiful ginger bastard who had dragged him off the field that awful day he’d been shot through the shoulder, made sure John arrived at the dinner in top form.

Dinner, talk, reminiscences. Encouragement and laughter. A moment’s silence for those who hadn’t made it home; or had made it home but no further. New partners, new kids, new futures.

John had determined not to spend the whole night talking about Sherlock and crime-solving, and the ludicrous brilliance of their everyday lives, but his old mates kept asking about it; were eager to hear what their old medic was up to. He was their favourite success story, and John enjoyed telling tall stories that were actually all true, and the evening was everything John had hoped it would be.

The only gripe John had about the night was that Sherlock wasn’t here as well. Sod the ‘demonstrating a successful life’ idea – but it would have been nice to have a dance or two. But this dinner wasn’t Sherlock’s kind of thing, and that was fine.

The evening was still buzzing, the more relaxed post-dining phase just beginning. John was leaning against the wall, sipping a scotch and watching Lachie dancing with his fiancée Inez to some very apt song called _Marry You_. John suspected Bill had requested the song for them. Bill was a cheerful little enabler of happy times.

Bill was talking animatedly to Jaresh and Gianni when he stopped to check his phone. Bill grinned, said something to the other two, and they both looked towards John while Bill darted towards the entrance.

John put down his glass and stood tall, alert for shenanigans – with the Fusiliers, shenanigans were best expected at all times; they’d been a good training ground for living with Sherlock…

…and then Sherlock strode into the room, Bill grinning at his side. Bill didn’t even have to point out where John stood at the bar. Sherlock had seen him almost instantly, and in the same moment had begun to make a beeline for him.

In the last few hours, Sherlock had somehow managed to find a kilt in the Watson tartan – blue and green with threads of red, black and yellow running throughout. The white dress shirt and dark jacket fitted Sherlock perfectly. The black tasselled sporran was almost a match for John’s own, except that tooled into the leather of John’s was the family crest of a griffin and the motto _Mea gloria fides – ‘Fidelity is my glory’._

Sherlock stopped sharply before John – his kilt swayed briefly around his knees before settling – and he smiled at John smiling at him.

“I’m sorry it took a while to get here. Besides booking a sudden flight, I had to call in a favour to get the right kilt at short notice. I hope you’ve no objections to my wearing your tartan.”

“No. It’s good. It’s fine. Better than fine. We’re practically married anyway.”

Sherlock held out his hand. “May I have this dance?”

John took Sherlock’s hand. “I’d be honoured.”

John’s cast made it slightly difficult, but Sherlock simply wrapped his arms around John’s waist and John laid his head on Sherlock’s chest, angling to make room for his wrist, and they swayed together to the slow song that had suddenly replaced the chirpy dance track. _I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing_.

John suspected Bill’s involvement again, but then forgot that in favour of moving with Sherlock on the dance floor, while other Fusiliers joined them – dancing with partners or, for some who’d come without a plus one, each other.

These men had been through hell together. They’d side-by-side danced with death for years, and now they laughed and moved, holding each other in arms and their regard. All glad to be alive, and to be among friends who understood that living after the years of almost-dying wasn’t always a glad thing.

And had Sherlock bothered to notice how these men looked at John dancing with a man, he’d have noticed that not one of them did so with anything but a fond smile that John was happy, was loved, and was, most definitely, glad to be among the living.

*

Midnight was half an hour behind them when Sherlock and John got to John’s hotel room, both of them tipsy. Sherlock was simultaneously unlocking the door and kissing John’s neck, and John clung to Sherlock’s dress shirt with his good hand and wriggled his hips, trying to somehow nudge sporrans out of the way so he could get to the good stuff; to wit, getting the slight bulge under his kilt to line up with the slight bulge under Sherlock’s and encourage both bulges to be less slight.

They tumbled through the door and Sherlock nimbly kicked the door shut, gathered John close and spun both of them around to land on the bed. He promptly straddled John’s thighs and bent to cup John’s face in his hands and kiss him stupid. John moaned. He slid his hand into Sherlock’s hair and held him close, kissing back with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.

They parted, panting, and John nudged up with his hips. Sherlock plucked the sporran out of the way, shoving it to one side initially so he could rub his palm over John’s hidden cock.

“Look at you,” murmured Sherlock. “A thoroughly debauched Scot.”

“Debauch me some more,” John urged him, “I want it. Debauch the fuck out of me.”

“Yes, sir!” Sherlock grinned, scooted back a little way, and buried his face in John’s crotch, sucking the outline of his thickening erection through the sturdy Watson tartan. John’s hand flexed against Sherlock’s scalp and he spread his legs.

Sherlock sat up straight. John raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t tell me you’re done debauching me. I’ve got a lot of virtue left to besmirch, you know.”

“That’s not what I hear from the regiment.”

“Liars, the lot of them,” said John indignantly, but he ruined his argument by grabbing a handful of tartan and cock and squeezing. “Besmirch me, you fucking gorgeous thing.”

“OH, I plan to.”

Whereupon, Sherlock wrapped his arms under John’s back and lifted-pushed, getting John more firmly onto the bed. John’s cock presented as an excellent tent pole under the kilt and he laughed through his deeply aroused groan.

First, Sherlock unclipped John’s sporran, which really was annoyingly in the way, and then his own. Then, with a devilish grin, he placed his palms on each of John’s legs, just below the hem of the kilt, and began to push up. With the long fingers of his large hands, he gathered up the material as he pushed, ruching the fabric over John’s knees and thighs; up to his hips. John obligingly lifted his bum off the mattress, but Sherlock paused.

“Now for the big reveal,” he said, sultry as fuck, and John giggled. “Be serious, John. I’m debauching you. It’s very serious business.”

“Yes I know. It’s killing me as we speak.”

Sherlock held the handfuls of fabric and John’s hips. He leaned down to kiss John, slow and soft then filthy and hard, until John’s pelvis was rocking up towards him. Then he sat down on John’s legs again and slowly shoved the kilt up.

John’s cock got caught briefly on a fold of fabric, then Sherlock shoved the hem up further and John’s flushed cock sprang free. A little sticky thread of pre-come bridged between the tip and the kilt, but Sherlock bent again to lick it up and John, watching, moaned deeply.

“You forgot your pants,” Sherlock accused mildly.

“I’m in correct Scottish dress,” countered John. He wiggled his bum to make his cock waggle.

“So am I,” grinned Sherlock.

The debauching continued with wet licks and swallowed-to-the-hilt sucking. When Sherlock could drag himself away from the wonder that was fellating John until John was babbling, Sherlock retrieved a tube of lube from his sporran. John laughed again, in a surfeit of delight, and lifted his still-shod feet to the mattress so that Sherlock could slide a lubed finger between his arsecheeks.

The kilt was rucked up high, leaving John’s arse, cock and balls bared for Sherlock.

“Your virtue is mine!” declared Sherlock triumphantly from between John’s knees. “Prepare for full debauching.”

John’s response was to thrust down onto Sherlock’s finger and wriggle.

Never one to squander an opportunity, Sherlock pushed his slicked finger into John and rubbed the skin under John’s balls with his thumb. John made a disgraceful noise that was like music and thrust down again.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, “That’s it. Do that. Fuck yourself on me.” Sherlock crooked his finger so it brushed over the sweet spot and John arched and writhed even harder. When he was huffing with dizzy pleasure, Sherlock withdrew his hand. He hitched his own kilt up to his hips and tugged at his own erection.

John looked down his body at Sherlock’s hard cock, so wet at the tip; at his own dribbling pre-come down the shaft. “Fuck. Sherlock. Get that into me. Now. I need you _now_.”

Sherlock budged forward, slotting himself snugly between John’s thighs. He guided his cock to John’s hole and began to push. He lifted John’s bare legs to rest on his shoulders and pushed some more, hitching his hips gently but relentlessly until he had slid all the way, _all_ the way in.

John wrapped his good arm across Sherlock’s back, then bent his arm to bury his fingers in Sherlock’s curls.

“Love you,” he murmured against Sherlock’s ear, before biting the lobe, then kissing it, and nuzzling Sherlock’s cheek. “I love you. Now fuck me before this fucking kills me.”

Sherlock’s body rocked into John’s. He curled his hips, slow at first, for a long while, because the hoarse moans pouring from John’s mouth were exquisite. Then the fizz along his body, where John was pressed to him, where John’s hot breath huffed across his skin, where their bodies were joined in slick pleasure, effervesced through his spine and balls and cock and heart and brain. He moved faster, harder, then more erratically as thrust into John, chanting his name (and John chanted back, _Sherlock, yes yes yes, Sherlock Sherlock_ ). He pressed his forehead to John’s cheek as he came, still pumping into John’s body, or perhaps John still thrusting back, curving his hips up to meet every thrust, even though he’d come too, spilling gorgeously all up Sherlock’s stomach and underneath his kilt.

Sherlock nuzzled John’s face until John turned to capture Sherlock’s mouth, and they proceeded to kiss each other, gentle, mouthing kisses. Finally, Sherlock shifted to sprawl beside John, head pillowed on John’s shoulder. He glanced down at John, still exposed from the navel down, sticky and softening. Well-debauched.

John raised his head to see what Sherlock was looking at, and giggled. “Yep. My virtue is well and truly yours. You’ve ruined me. You’ll have to marry me now.”

They were both silent for a long moment. Sherlock rubbed his cheek against John’s dress shirt and smoothed a hand across John’s chest. John snuffled against Sherlock’s curls and kissed the crown of his head.

“Would you?” John asked quietly. “Marry me?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock simply. He moved so that he could press a kiss to John’s lips. “But only if we can wear the matching kilts again. I want to debauch you again on the wedding night.”

“You debauch me; I’ll besmirch you.”

“An excellent plan,” said Sherlock, and they kissed again.

And, as can be readily imagined, between solving crimes and blogging about them – and only occasionally forgetting their pants – they lived happily ever after.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can see both the ancient and the modern Watson tartans [here.](http://www.scotclans.com/scottish-clans/clan-watson/watson-tartan/)


End file.
